


Bike or Bake

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:37:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4620456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for a prompt on tumblr. Wakamatsu is furious at the owner of the new bakery. <a href="http://awful-aus.tumblr.com/post/120621390095/awful-au-323">source</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Bike or Bake

When a customer walks in, it’s in Wakamatsu’s best interests not to yell at them. Unfortunately, this is the third customer today to walk in with a giant pile of delicious-smelling, gooey, sweet, greasy carbohydrates in the form of a muffin—and he knows where the hell it’s coming from. He barely registers what the customer is saying in an effort to not yell at her, and when she gives him her card to swipe he hands over the receipt to sign without a word or a smile. She gives him a frightened look, and for a split second he feels bad—but that goes right back to feeling bad about that goddamn stupid new bakery.

Wakamatsu had always thought that his family’s bike shop was in a great location, right near the park where cycling enthusiasts and casual riders and even kids just starting out could go and spend the day; they’d buy water bottles and bike accessories and pay for their tires to be re-inflated or their seats fixed or any adjustments or consultation. And it was right near a health clinic and a nutrition store and a batting cage, forming the center of health and wellness for the entire community.

Two weeks ago the Sakurai Bakery had opened up across the street, in a vacant storefront of what had once been a liquor store—not the best, but certainly avoidable for most people gearing up to cycle, or getting back from a long, tiring day. And of course they’re hungry, but instead of getting a good, balanced meal at home they’re buying cookies and muffins and buttered breads and other forms of empty calories and washing them down with emptier hot chocolates and caramel coffees and who knows what else and two weeks is two weeks too many.

Even if it’s half past ten, it’s time for his lunch break, and Wakamatsu knows where he’s going. He marches straight across the street and barges into the bakery. The breakfast crowd has cleared out, and only a few people are sitting at tables now—the space is well-lit and clean, but, well. Anyone can use a mop, even people conspiring to make everyone fat. The guy at the register looks lazy and half-asleep and this is even worse than Wakamatsu thought.

“I want to speak to your manager.”

“Huh?” says the guy.

“You heard me, punk,” says Wakamatsu. “I want to speak to your manager.”

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t know what got your panties in a twist. Hey, Ryou!”

Wakamatsu’s just about to retort something about being polite to customers, when a very small person scuttles out from the kitchen and—oh. He’s very cute and very nervous looking, huge eyes peering out from wispy brown bangs and flushed cheeks like fresh radishes and it’s too damn distracting.

“Excuse me, ah, may I help? I’m, er, the proprietor, Sakurai Ryou.” He bows.

Wakamatsu starts to bow back, but then—this is the guy in charge of fucking everything. “Who the hell do you think you are, coming here into our territory?”

Sakurai blinks.

“I run the bike shop across the street, which if you didn’t know used to be part of the effort to keep everyone here healthy. And you’ve ruined it! My customers come in with these big fatty muffins and sooner or later they’ll be too fat to ride their bikes! If you’re opening up something here, make it healthy and at least try to fit into the neighborhood.”

Sakurai blinks again, and then his eyes narrow and harden as if he’s staring down a mountain that he’s about to climb on a bike. “Excuse you. Maybe you’re just jealous because you don’t make delicious baked goods, and your shop doesn’t have universal appeal. Don’t blame your business problems on me if you only appeal to hardcore fitness types. I don’t see why people can’t get hungry after they ride and then pick up a cookie or a muffin and still be healthy—it’s only a problem if you make it one. Now get out of my bakery.”

Wakamatsu doesn’t need to be told twice.

* * *

 

Nothing changes in the ensuing weeks—Wakamatsu occasionally feels bad for yelling at Sakurai, but then again it’s just his duty to keep the neighborhood healthy. Of course, it hasn’t had any effect—he’d tried to ban eating in his store, but people complained and if they’re riding less and eating more he really can’t afford to lose the business or decrease long-built-up customer loyalty.

And he’s thinking about all this (and on top of that how delicious the smell of fresh-baked sourdough bread is, regardless of how bad it is for him) and not paying attention to the road because he’s only a few meters from work when his bike hits the curb and sends him flying. He skids across the sidewalk like a braking train, his skin tearing up on the rough surface until he comes to a halt. At least his head’s okay, and it hadn’t sound as if he’d broken anything. Cautiously, he lifts each limb; they all feel unbroken (even if they’re not totally normal).

“Wakamatsu-san!”

He lifts his head; Sakurai, still wearing an apron, is rushing toward him. Wakamatsu groans.

“Sakurai?”

“Oh, thank goodness. I saw your bike hit the curb and then—oh, no, your arm is bleeding really badly! Do you need something to put on it? I can get you a towel or—oh, no…”

Wakamatsu laughs—it’s really, really not funny but the frantic way Sakurai is dithering around is ridiculously cute. “Hey, I’m fine. I might go to the clinic and get checked out, though.”

“Oh! Right. The clinic.” This time Sakurai gives a nervous giggle.

“How does my bike look?”

“Ah…I’m sorry….the front wheel is all bent. I’m sorry!”

Wakamatsu lifts his head; his back is screaming in pain but he’s had worse. Yeah, his bike is fucked up but it’s nothing he can’t fix with the spare parts he has lying around.

“It’ll be okay.”

Sakurai blinks. “It…will? That’s good.”

And then he smiles, face lighting up like festival fireworks. Wakamatsu can only stare, until the expression falters and Sakurai’s usual nervous stare returns.

“Hey, Sakurai?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for coming to check up on me. Even after what I said to you. I’m…I’m sorry.”

The panicked grief resurfaces in Sakurai’s eyes. “No! I’m sorry! What I said in return was completely uncalled for. And I’m sorry for baking—”

“No. It’s my fault. I started everything, over basically nothing. It was nothing; it is nothing. Our stores can coexist fine. I just overreacted, okay?”

“Fine,” says Sakurai, a hint of a grin twitching at his lips. “If you insist.”


End file.
